


All Good Deeds

by Bluer_skies



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluer_skies/pseuds/Bluer_skies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smallest act of kindness can make the biggest difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Good Deeds

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post on AO3, so I apologize if I've committed blasphemy upon the formatting and whatnot.

It was obvious that people were avoiding the young man. Why, John Watson could not rightfully say, but it grated on his nerves nonetheless.

Sickly pale skin stretched tautly over fine bird’s bones, long, gangly arms that bent almost painfully against his knees and an awkwardly thin waist too narrow for his hips; the man was haunting. Like a silent, dark-haired ghost just ready to be carried off in the wind.

If not for the barely perceivable rise and fall of the man’s chest John would have though him dead. The man was just so ghastly to look upon, dull-eyed and blank-faced as he was.

Despite the jumper and jacket he wore, it was still bitingly cold and John winced in sympathy when he caught sight of the young man’s long, slender neck flushed raw from exposure.

His sister called out to him, already having waved down a cab as the bustling crowd rushed about their daily lives around her, obscuring her from view. Her cheeks were flushed red, breath puffing out around her in gentle clouds of white as she breathed.

It was so cold, and the thin man did not even attempt to cover himself from the brunt of it, eyes still worryingly void even as John moved closer.

John knew there was little he could do, he and his sister barely making it in the world themselves, but still he pulled his soft, blue scarf from his own neck and arranged it around the unmoving man’s, giving it a gentle pat as he spoke. “Merry Christmas.” And he walked away, limping off towards the curb where his sister waited impatiently for him.

What John did not see was the pale, slender hand that reached up to hold tenderly to the blue scarf, the smallest flicker of expression lighting that vacant face as his fingertips brushed against the tag.

“Merry Christmas, John H. Watson.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now that I've been christened into the site, it's time for bed. Night everybody (because chances are you're reading this at some inane hour in the morning; its a fandom thing apparently).


End file.
